Conversations On The Battlefield
by Tarma Hartley
Summary: Inspired by Alassa's piece on dA, A Friend In Need. Francis and Arthur stare despondently at the battlefield, unaware that there are conversations going on: That of the newly dead... Hetalia, Teen, some battlefield gore, tragedy/humor.


_A/N: I do not own Francis & Arthur; they belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. However, the plot, Pvt. Hanson, The French Commandants, Corporal Davidson, the Capitaine, The English Commanders_, _François de Artagne_, _Christopher Whitney, the Sergeant and other assorted dead English and French soldiers are mine. :^)_

_~X-x-X~  
><em>

_Francis and Arthur stare at the remnants of the battle between their two countries in mingled sorrow and disbelief. Unknown to them, however, there are conversations going on that neither of them can hear... that of the newly dead..._

_~X-x-X~_

Another Hetalia fic! This one was inspired both by a comment made by Alassa, on dA, in the artist's comments that I found side-splittingly _hilarious_: "So excuse the dead people. They went to have a coffee. Or more likely the tea since most of them were Britons" _and_ the piece itself entitled_, A Friend In Need. _Thanks for the wonderful piece that inspired this darkly comic and somewhat serious in some places fic of mine! :^)

War is a _very_ serious thing and both Arthur and Francis are now being apprised of this fact. The darkly comic humour comes from the dead soldiers themselves who realize that 1. They really _are_ dead and 2. They're not _exactly_ sure _how_ to handle it. That really _would _put a crimp in one's plans, wouldn't it?

The setting for the war between the two of them is also fictional; since the piece had Arthur dressed in a Revolutionary War uniform, that's where I set it and used the monarchs who were ruling in their respective countries at the time, King George III of Great Britain and Louis XVI of France. [Of course, France and England _did_ fight each other in the Middle Ages at such places as Crecy, Poitiers and Agincourt under King Henry V and, the most famous or infamous, One Hundred Years War, which is actually the One hundred and sixteen Years War since that's how long it lasted, covering the rules of King Edward III, King Richard II, King Henry IV, King Henry V and King Henry VI. It started in 1337 and ended in 1453.] Although Francis and Arthur are in it, this fic mainly focuses on the dead English and French soldiers.

"Camarade-dans-bras" means "Comrades In Arms" in French. [Translation provided by Yahoo! Babelfish] "Blackguard" means "a low, contemptible person; scoundrel." [Definition taken from dictionary(dot)com]

"Requiescat in pace" means "Rest in peace" in Latin.

Addresses to information on the rank of Commandant the French military, French translations, information on the rank of Capitaine in the French Army from here, information on the Middle Ages Timeline and general insults that Corporal Davidson and the French Capitaine threw at each other are in my profile.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy!

__**Thank you **__to all my readers: those who have commented, read, reviewed, favourited/story alerted my stories and thanks also to those who have author alerted/favourite authored, as well! I appreciate it very much! I am glad that you are enjoying my stories and I hope that you will continue to enjoy them in the future! :)

__**Thank you**__ to Midnight-hunter for her wonderful beta reading! Thanks bunches!

_**Special thanks** _to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his encouragement, love, concern and for reigniting the fire within me to write! Love you, honey, and thanks!

As always, reviews, comments and suggestions are welcomed and appreciated! I aim to improve my writing and comments do help me to do just that: by letting me know what you like, what you don't and what needs improvement. :^)

**~X-x-X~**

_The two men faced each other from opposite sides of the now silent battlefield as a thick, dense smoke hung in the air, the dead strewn in a wide arc around where they stood. The blond haired man, his hair caught up in a ponytail and dressed in a simple white shirt covered with a bluish-grey tunic, black pants and boots, had an expression__ of deep sorrow on his face, _his arms hanging loosely at his sides. The_ other, dressed in a British military uniform_,_ his crimson coat almost gleaming in the gathering darkness, his white shirt, pants and black boots spattered with mud and blood, sported one of disbelief and inconsolable anguish, his lips quivering. The wind blew sorrowfully across the carnage, tossing the remnants of leaves in its wake that were the sole survivors of the battle and all that remained of the once lush, thick and vibrant forest that had once been here and now the sole resting place of the dead._

_For many moments, the two men faced each other in silence until the man in the British uniform at last broke it by asking brokenly, _"Why, Francis? Why?"

_The other man shrugged his shoulders._ "I don't know, Arthur,"_ he replied softly, taking a hesitant step forward while the other trembled with barely suppressed emotion, "_I... _don't_ know..._"_

"How could you?"_ Arthur's voice cracked as he spoke, his tone heavy with accusation and reproach. _"How... how... _could_... you...?"

"I'm sorry,"_ Francis whispered sorrowfully, his steps quickening as he came closer, _"I'm so, _so_ sorry..." _He swallowed hard, tears glistening in his eyes._ "Arthur, I... I _don't_ know what _else_ to say..."

"My children... my..._ my_... _children_... are... _dead_..." _Arthur mourned, continuing to speak as if he hadn't heard him, his eyes wide and staring, glittering tears beginning to well at the corners._ "They're all.._.gone_ ..."

__Overhead thunder rolled and lightning cracked and sizzled as fat raindrops began to fall, hitting the churned up ground with a loud smacking sound._ Arthur said nothing for some time and then began to weep inconsolably for his lost children, his shoulders shaking with emotion. Francis raced over to where Arthur stood, catching him in his arms as his legs began to give out underneath him and they both sank to the ground together, Francis on his knees and Arthur sprawling on the ground in a semi-recumbent position._

_Francis pressed Arthur's head against his chest while he wept, his arms tightening around him, his own expression sad and solemn, not noticing as the storm increased in violence, rain falling thickly all around them..._

**~X-x-X~**_  
><em>

The wind blew over the remains of the battered forces on the battlefield, English and French alike, the survivors retreating to their respective lines in order to regroup and, later on, to bury their dead. A tattered flag, shot full of holes and a mute witness to the violent confrontation that had taken place here, fluttered beside the ruin of what was once a fence, amid the additional wreckage that surrounded it.

The dark, grey sky above them seemed indifferent as rain began to fall, turning the soft soil on the ground to a mucky, sticky mess; on the ground amongst the rubble and ruin, Francis knelt and held Arthur in his arms, trying to comfort the heartbroken man as much as he could.

He murmured soft words as Arthur clung to him and buried his face in Francis' chest, tears falling thickly down his face, the English and French dead and dying lay thickly around them in sprawled, broken and twisted heaps.

"I'm sorry," Francis whispered brokenly, his voice thick with tears as he stroked Arthur's blond hair tenderly, the latter weeping brokenly, "I'm so, _so_ sorry it came to this..." He planted a gentle kiss on top of Arthur's head, tears slowly slipping down his cheeks. "I _didn't_ want this to happen anymore than you did, mon chéri ..."

As Francis tried to comfort an inconsolable Arthur, an eerie, deafening silence settled over the battlefield; unbeknownst to those alive, and to Arthur and Francis themselves, there_ was_ conversation going on although, admittedly, it was one in which they could not hear. It was also one that was lively, informative and often bellicose in both French and English. That of the newly dead.

Yes, the _dead_. The living were unaware of this, of course, for they did not speak on the same wavelength as that of their deceased counterparts. Even if they had been able to do so, the living still could not _quite _comprehend it for they were on two _very _different planes of existence: those who were prisoners of time and those who were now forever outside of it.

As their respective countries comforted each other in the middle of the mud and destruction, a dead English soldier opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear them of the blood that caked his face like a grotesque mask, looking over to his companion who lay a few feet away.

"I say, Christopher," he said with some amount of surprise, his shocked eyes flickering over the now silent battlefield. "That was _quite_ a blow, wasn't it?"

"Bloody hell, I'll say it _was_, Sergeant!" Christopher responded loudly, shaking what was left of his head and pressing a bloodied, gloved hand against the ruin of his forehead. "And I have one god awful headache..." He closed his eyes, a pained moan escaping from his lips as he groped around in the mud for his musket, his fingers wrapping around it and slowly pulling it toward himself, leaving a trail of squiggly marks behind.

"Well, _that _doesn't come as a surprise," commented Private Hanson acidly who lay four feet to the west of where Christopher lay, rising slowly up out of the muck, a streak of crimson running down the middle of his face from the wound in his temple, "you've lost half your bloody head!"

Christopher was silent for a time, turning this new information over in his mind and cursed softly. "That _would_ do it, wouldn't it?" he said softly, turning his weapon over, jamming the point of the attached bayonet deep into the soft ground and, leaning heavily on it, slowly lifting himself into a half-sitting, half-reclining posture, breathing heavily as he did so. "No wonder, then..."

A half-strangled yawn erupted out of the mud beside him and Christopher slowly turned to look at the French soldier who was slowly rising up, a baleful glance aimed at him while his fellow English soldiers kept a wary eye on the newest addition to the conversation.

"I take it that I have **YOU** to thank for this..." the soldier said angrily in heavily accented English, pointing to the wound in his neck that added a curious bubbling sound to his words when he spoke. He glared at him before adding in French, "vous bâtard anglais [you English bastard]!"

Christopher frowned, his eyebrows furrowing as he sought to understand what it was that the soldier had just said to him before turning to a fellow English infantryman who stood silently at attention on his right and asking, "What did he say?"

The soldier shook his head disgustedly. "You don't want to know," he replied stiffly before he turned on his heel and stumbled across the battlefield to the far side, leaving a very confused Matthew behind to wonder, exactly, _what_ it was that the French soldier had said although the gist of it was simple enough to figure out by the sour look on his face: _Thanks for killing me, you blackguard!_

"It wasn't _me_!" Christopher responded quickly, lifting his hands up in front of him, his eyes darting in wide arcs around him. Other soldiers, in French and English uniforms were beginning to rise up from their prone death positions and glancing about with expressions of mingled surprise and curiosity. "_I_ was killed before _you _were!"

The French soldier eyed him dubiously, wiping a trickle of blood that had traveled down the left side of his face. "Are you sure about that?" he asked testily, groping in the mud for his weapon while Christopher rolled his eyes and looked at the grey sky, taking a deep breath which was rather interesting, from his point of view, since he no longer had lungs to breathe with.

Christopher nodded. "I'm sure," he replied, spreading out his hands, his mouth turned down at the corners, his cheeks turning pink as a sheepish expression spread across his face. "A bloody cannonball got me."

The French solider winced noticeably, sucking in his breath. "Vous pauvre homme [You poor man]," he said with feeling, his tone now subdued instead of hostile which Christopher found quite surprising, given the circumstances. "Mauvaise chance [Bad luck]..."

Christopher looked confused and, turning to the man who was standing unsteadily beside him asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the French soldier, "What did he say?"

"He said, '_You poor man. Bad luck_.'"

"Oh." Christopher sat quietly for a few minutes, his fist cupped underneath his chin, deep in thought while both the English soldier who stood beside him and the French soldier he'd been talking to looked on in silence along with more of the men who lay sprawled out in a wide arc all around them. "Would he, perchance, mind speaking to me in English since I don't understand French well enough to converse easily with him?"

"I don't know. I'll ask him." His compatriot duly turned toward the French soldier and asked, in perfect French, "Il voudrait savoir si vous vous occuperiez de lui parler en anglais puisqu'il ne comprend pas le français assez bien pour converser dans lui facilement. [He would like to know if you would mind speaking to him in English since he does not understand French well enough to converse in it easily.]"

The French soldier sighed and nodded. "I can speak English and, yes, I will address him in that rather vulgar tongue." He looked at Christopher, his eyebrow rising, his dark eyes flashing. "I suppose I should introduce myself." He took a deep breath. "My name is François de Artagne and I am-_was_-a member of His Majesty, King Louis XVI's, infantry."

Christopher leaned over, grabbing the French soldier's hand and shaking it warmly. "My name is Christopher Whitney, a... _late_... member of His Majesty, King George III's, armed forces." He smiled as François hesitated a moment but then gripped Christopher's hand just as firmly as Christopher himself had and shook it just as warmly. "Pleased to meet you."

"And you as well." The French soldier sighed, taking out a surprisingly intact pipe out of his breast pocket along with a pouch of tobacco, opened it, took out a pinch and stuffed it into the pipe. After he had done so, he put the pipe into his mouth, clamping down on it with his teeth. "Hell of a way to meet..."

"Indeed," Christopher agreed, taking a plug of tobacco out of his pocket, tearing off a piece and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "I can think of _much _better ways than _this_ to meet a fellow soldier..."

François nodded and the two sat in companionable silence for some time, hearing voices around them that, in some cases, were chattering pleasantly; in others, were raised in belligerent bickering, while the remainder of them remained stock still and quiet, the shock over the terrible violence of their deaths rendering them, for the present at least, momentarily speechless.

When they at last spoke again, it was of home, the families they had left behind and other matters until their attention was diverted, three feet to the left of where they sat, by a particularly nasty argument that had broken out between an older French soldier and a baby-faced English soldier who couldn't have been more than twenty years of age.

François sighed, a plume of smoke rising from his pipe, mingling with the smoke on the field of battle and the mist that followed hard on the heels of the rain that had begun some time earlier.

"What in the world could they possibly find to fight about?" he said sadly. "Whatever it is, it's completely pointless now."

Christopher nodded and waited until François had a chance to compose himself before speaking again. "I suspect that Corporal Davidson is in high dudgeon about your compatriot shooting him in the back." He snickered loudly and Francois hid a small smile beneath a hastily smothered chuckle, covering it by a loud cough.

"I daresay he is," François agreed, flicking an eye over to the two combatants who, abandoning any sense of dignity, flew at each other, hissing, kicking, punching and biting like two alley cats locked in mortal combat, "and I can see _why_ he _wouldn't _be very happy about being shot. One would, certainly, take great exception to being killed, after all..."

The Englishman chuckled softly and turned to watch the two fight, other French and English soldiers crowding around in an ever tightening ring, watching and cheering each of their respective country's representatives on, the cacophony ringing in the dense silence. "Yes, it really would put quite a crimp on one's plans for their life, wouldn't it?"

"It would and I can understand why our two combatants _aren't_ very happy with the other for taking them off the living plane and, with cannon or shot, thrusting them immediately into the world of the dead." He blew out another ring of smoke, his tone thoughtful. "It_ is_ rather disconcerting at first until you get used to it."

Christopher sighed. "That is true and I can't really blame them for feeling the way they do. I'm _still _having a bit of trouble coming to terms with it myself..." He looked over at the scrapping soldiers who were churning up a great din, and mud, during their fight, their angry voices carrying to the furthest ends of the battlefield. He turned back to Francois, a troubled look on his face. "Nonetheless," he continued, his eyes clouding, "it really _shouldn't_ matter now that _they_, as _we_, are dead. _Nothing_ attached to our previous lives _should _have any bearing on our life here now that we're deceased and far beyond earthly cares."

"You're right," another chorus of voices piped up and both men looked up, startled, to see fifty men standing around them, their dead skins pasty white and streaked with blood, "it_ shouldn't_ matter anymore..."

François nodded, satisfaction creasing his features, the circle of soldiers nodding as one with him.

"Too bad we all learned that lesson too late to make a difference."

Christopher shrugged with serene indifference.

"I suppose that there are some things you can only learn at the moment of death," he said matter-of-factly, murmurs of agreement filling the air around him, "and, hopefully, the living will learn from our mistakes and attempt do a much better job than we did." He looked around at the devastation and destruction that lay all around him, his expression mournful in the pre-dawn darkness. "I just wish that our leaders wouldn't respond with sabre-rattling in response to their problems... that will never solve anything in the long run."

His compatriot nodded. "Indeed." François blew out a last ring of smoke and, after a moment, took the pipe out of his mouth, looking around the battlefield with a curious expression on his face and did not say anything for a long time. It was almost as if he were taking his last look at the world and Christopher couldn't quite understand _why_ he'd want his final view of the world to be a battlefield. He figured that François had his reasons and kept respectfully silent.

After some time had passed, the French soldier turned it over in his hand and dumped the burnt remains of the tobacco onto the mucky, red streaked ground, tapping the pipe against the heel of his boot smartly, and putting it back into his breast pocket. "Well, I think that we should travel over to the squabbling two and break it up." He grinned wolfishly as he stood up, brushing the mud off of his uniform with firm strokes. "I have a much better idea of what to do with our unlimited time than fighting with each other."

Christopher nodded as he slowly stood up, a curious expression spreading across his face at Francois' rather cryptic words. He grabbed Matthew's inner arm and helped him get to his feet, the latter wobbling for a moment and then managed to stand up straight, thanking him for his help with a smile.

François merely nodded and proceeded to march over to where the soldiers were fighting, a large crowd having grown around them in the meantime, closely followed by Christopher, Private Hanson and a contingent of others.

The din was almost deafening, Christopher privately thinking that the shouted obscenities in both English and French, accompanied by the loud sounds of flesh smacking into flesh and crunching bone were louder than the battle itself had been.

François stood at the edge of the battling twosome, his green eyes narrowing into little slits, his hands balled into fists that and resting on his hips as he leaned over and shouted, at the top of his lungs, "**ARRÊT **[**STOP**]!"

The descending silence that fell after he'd shouted this was deafening, the combatants stopping at once though their eyes still smoldered with barely suppressed rage, their hands full of the others' collar.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" demanded the English soldier, Corporal Davidson, rudely, tightening his grip on the French soldier's collar. "I don't take any damned orders from any damned Frenchies when their compatriot shoots me in the back because he _can't_ face me like a _man_!"

The French soldier sputtered indignantly. "I most certainly did _not_!" he fired back hotly, his grip tightening on Corporal Davidson's collar and shaking him until his teeth rattled which prompted the other to new levels in exploring the rich diversity of the English language to its fullest. "This...this... _cowardly roast beef _... shot one of my men who was unarmed and trying to surrender!" He glared at Corporal Davidson. "I would do it again, English dog, because you deserved it, you rotten son of a-"

"Miserable Frog!" Corporal Davidson shouted, pushing the French soldier back rudely.

"Stinking Limey!" the other shouted back, grimacing as the other man's grip on his collar became even tighter than it was before.

François held up his hand, again stopping the two combatants cold once again as they stood stock still, glaring daggers at each other.

"I have heard more than I care to, gentlemen," he said quietly, "and, _Capitaine_-" he addressed the French soldier with a cold eye -"_whatever _the reasons were for you shooting the Englishman in the first place are of no consequence _any_ longer. _You_, as _we_, are dead and there is _no_ reason for us to carry on like this since_ all_ of our earthly concerns are gone and, since we'll be spending eternity in this place together with our English brothers, we _might_ as well bury the hatchet and _try_ to get along."

The Capitaine and Corporal Davidson stared at François as if he had gone mad while the latter stood quietly with an air of command.

"But... but... _Commandant_...!" he protested, his face pinched and unhappy, with an uneasy glance at the Englishman whose faced echoed the shock of the Frenchman whose collar he was holding. "You... _can't_ be serious...! After what_ he's_ done, why should _I _even con-"

"I don't care _what_ he's done," François returned coolly, gesturing to Christopher who nodded reassuringly, "and I really _don't_ care_ if _you like it or not: I _am _ordering you to make your peace with the Englishman and you're going to do it _now_!"

"But-" the Capitaine protested weakly. -"I- it's...not.. I-"

"**MAINTENANT**![**NOW!**!]" François bellowed, his stormy countenance looming large in the Capitaine's face who, without another word, hastened to obey the order with visible reluctance. Corporal Davidson's eyes widened in surprise and he looked in disbelief at Christopher who made no comment but merely nodded encouragingly.

Corporal Davidson swallowed hard and looked like he'd rather swallow poison than apologize to his enemy, as did his French counterpart, but he eventually did, Christopher encouraging him to forgive and forget.

Taking a deep breath, Corporal Davidson stammered out an apology which the Capitaine accepted at once after seeing the Commandant's warning look out of the corner of his eye; François smiled toothily as he turned to face the other soldiers who had clustered around them amazed at seeing their ancient enemies making peace for the first time any of them could remember, excited and surprised murmurs growing to a fever pitch over time.

The Commandant held up his hand for silence and the voices eventually petered into silence, the only sound being the wind that blew across the battlefield in a mourning wail that chilled the blood of the survivors.

"Now that we have _that_ particular issue settled," he said smartly, a wide grin on his face that was echoed in the men that stood around him, "I suggest that we go to the nearest tavern to celebrate!" He looked at the assembly around him, a wide grin on his face. "Who's with me?"

"Aye!" The din of cheers was deafening as all the soldiers on the battlefield, as one, rose and turned to follow François and Christopher, arm-in-arm. who were marching smartly across the battlefield, each singing an army song with gusto.

As they passed other soldiers who were still lying prone on the ground, the soldiers who were marching in that joyous procession stopped, bent over and offered a hand up which those on the ground gratefully accepted, their ranks swelling as more of the dead joined it, singing with all of their hearts, their chests swelling with pride.

They marched on into the night, singing and laughing as if they had been doing so all their lives with men that they had once been told were their enemies and now were their brothers, their camarade-dans-bras, marching proudly together for the first time in centuries.

François and Christopher, at the head of the procession, smiled as they looked back to see both of their fellow soldiers, English and French, following joyfully behind them as they left that field of death as one and progressed toward a bright new future of tolerance, brotherly love and friendship as the first rays of the rising sun slowly began to rise over the horizon to announce the arrival of a new day...

**~X-x-X~**

_Later that morning...  
>Behind the English line<br>5:30 A.M._

The English commander stood up, his mouth twitching at the corners as he digested the information that the French commander, under flag of truce, brought him.

"What do you mean there's _no one_ on the battlefield? How could there_ not _be?"

"I'm just as surprised as you are, Commander," the French Commandant confessed, his face white but keeping himself under marvelous control despite his nasty shock. "I _didn't_ believe it myself either, at first, but I promise you—there is _no one_ on the battlefield!"

The Englishman sat down heavily in his chair, his rough, craggy face reflecting his disbelief, rubbing his eyes tiredly with his fingers.

"When did you discover that those who were killed earlier last night weren't on the battlefield?" he asked quietly.

"Earlier this morning," the Commandant explained. "I had sent some men as a burial party to gather up our dead and take them back across our lines so that we could properly prepare them for burial. A few minutes later, they returned, each man white to the lips and, when I asked them what was wrong, they stammered that there _weren't _any dead on the battlefield at all."

"And _you_ believed _them_?" There was disbelief and disdain in the Englishman's voice for what he considered to be his enemy's foolishness that he didn't even bother to try to hide.

The French Commandant squared his shoulders. "Of course I did, Commander. I _know _my men; they _wouldn'_t lie to me about something like that." He leaned forward, looking at the Commander intently, his grey eyes serious. "I also had them take me out there so I could see for myself and they _were_ right: they're gone, Commander. I don't know where they've gone or how they left but there are no bodies there anywhere!"

The Commander was silent for a few moments, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully while he turned over the odd situation in his mind, the French commander standing there in silence.

"So what do you think happened?" he asked scathingly a few moments later, hard pressed to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. "They just got up and left?"

The French Commandant shrugged his shoulders. "It _does _look that way, Commander."

The Englishman stared in utter disbelief at his French counterpart for some time before dropping his gaze, muttering some choice epithets under his breath.

"I don't believe this," he grated out, raking his fingers through his salt and pepper colored hair, his blue eyes narrowing, "and I would think that _you_, Commandant, of _all_ people, would be the _last_ person to believe this contrived tale!"

The French Commandant's lips twitched at the corners with amusement as he held his peace. After all, _how_ could he explain the joyous songs, in both French and English, that he had heard shortly before dawn heading toward the nearest tavern that lay across the river?

He had his own ideas about that but kept them to himself as the English Commander gruffly dismissed him and, as he turned smartly on his heel and bowed, he heard once again those joyous songs floating across the river, the sound of glasses clinking together as enemies celebrated together as friends.

He smiled as he walked out of the tent and, once he was outside, took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp, sweet morning air.

_It's a great day to be alive_, he thought dreamily to himself, adding as he turned his head to gaze across the river, a look of serene contentment on his face as he saluted his fallen comrades, French and English alike._ _Reposez-vous dans la paix, mes frères, repos dans la paix_ [Rest in peace, my brothers, rest in peace].__ Godspeed._

The sun rose on a new day and still the sounds went on for some time before they gradually faded away, now shrouded in the silence of the grave.


End file.
